I Went for a Walk Today
by ItIsRaining
Summary: Sometimes what hurts you the most makes you the happiest. A short story. Just thoughts on a page.


Twilight is the property of Stephenie Meyer.

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><p>I went for a walk today.<p>

Seventy degrees, breezy, and beautiful.

Yes, I went for a walk today, but I didn't find what I was looking for.

I watch him there sometimes.

It's just down the street so you wonder, why not? The gentle sounds of the water, sandy towels strewn around the beach, the sunlight reflecting off every surface, warming it, entices you. But it's the people that keep you there.

One person keeps me there, and I go back for him every day.

I just want to feel what he's feeling, see what he's seeing.

Sometimes he sits on the curb of the bike path. He has a notebook in his lap and he's writing furiously, his brow furrowed. He doesn't look up at the scenery for inspiration and he pays no attention to the high-pitched laughing of the teenagers or rush of the waves crashing against the dock twenty feet in front of him.

I want to look over his shoulder and read the thoughts that were once in his head. I want to know how he feels about this and that and why he comes to this place every afternoon and retreats inward.

The scream of a child brings him out of his reverie and he looks to the lake with eyes far away. I watch the sunlight on his skin and the breeze through his hair. I want to be to breeze or the sunlight. I want to caress his cheekbone and warm him and run my fingers through the dark strands.

The wind doesn't tell him how beautiful he is. He's heard it before, but does he know, really?

Some would say it's in his eyes, and it might be.

His eyes. They stun me; shock me. I never knew anything could be violently beautiful, but it hurts me to look in his eyes. They tell a story we both know so well of love and pain, all of it reflected back.

Sometimes he walks along the beach with his shoes dangling from one hand. He has headphones in and I want to know what he's listening to so I can feel it as well.

Music is a funny thing, so much more for both of us. We are affected where others only hear it. We feel the emotion so much more deeply.

I know this about him. I can see it as he stands facing the lake, his eyes closed and his body making subtle movements with the beat.

He leaves too early sometimes, and I don't get my fix. I know where he's going, but I don't follow.

I know him better than his friends do. They know one part of him only. I've met that part and gotten to know it. I love it of course, but it's not the part that makes him who he is. It's not the part that sings in the shower or laughs at jokes that aren't funny to anyone else. They only know what he wants them to know: a fraction of himself.

He goes to meet them and I stay behind and walk in the footprints he's left in the sand.

Sometimes he's not there. My heart splits itself further and eventually shatters as I wait and wait, until I realize he's not coming. I shouldn't expect him though, shouldn't be angry.

He doesn't know how much it means to someone to simply watch him. He doesn't know that someone hangs on every smile, every fidget of his.

No, he wasn't there today, but I'll be back tomorrow.

Tomorrow brings a chillier wind and wispy clouds that dance low to the ground and tease the water.

I've spotted him already. He's sitting in the wet sand close to the shoreline with jeans rolled to his mid-calves and his notebook propped on his knees.

A good friend once called him a "hack writer who drinks too much and falls in love with girls." This rings true with that fraction he shows them, but a hack writer doesn't sit in cold lake water, getting his jeans filthy and soaked, with no purpose other than to let his thoughts flow freely on to the pages.

He used to tell me those thoughts. Now what does he do with them? They stay trapped inside his mind until he can escape to the beach. He goes crazy with them; the constant reminder of what he's been through, what he's done, what he lives with. It's the reason he comes here every day.

I wonder distantly what I do with my thoughts.

The next day he's taking a run along the path in shorts and a t-shirt. He just runs back and forth along the same stretch of beach, it couldn't be more than half a mile.

I sit on a bench shaded by a tree and follow him with my eyes.

He has his iPod with him again and his hair is damp with sweat, it's warmer out than it was yesterday.

I want to kiss him so badly.

I remember what it was like. Kisses are such simple things for couples, but every time I kissed him I told him how I felt. And I imagined that he understood when his eyes closed so tight, because that's what the weight of it would feel like.

Had I imagined it when he kissed me back and his lips seemed to say the same thing?

But what did we know of kisses and sex and love? We were young. We are young.

He stops running right in front of me and stands with his hands on his hips.

Then he looks at me. He knows I've been watching him. I wonder how long he's known: a few minutes, a few hours, a few days, a few weeks? Does it matter?

Those eyes hold nothing but recognition. He keeps running.

Tomorrow. I'll be back tomorrow.

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><p>Hey guys! I know it's been awhile. I'm in a story development class that has been great for my writing, so I thought I'd try some things out. Tell me what you think?<p>

Love forever to my girls on twitter xNimC, abneyxoxo, Mel_Faces. Please read Nim's new story Between the Soil & the Sky (by xNimC) if you haven't already and also Mel's amazing one-shot Duties of a Sister (by unfamiliar faces).

And as always thank you to my beautiful twifriend10. She keeps me going.

-ItIsRaining


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